


Barton

by Whumpadoodle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 10:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14735021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whumpadoodle/pseuds/Whumpadoodle
Summary: Anyone else wonder what Barton was up to during The Winter Soldier? No? Just me, then.Here’s what happened.





	Barton

“Agent Barton.” The man waiting at the foot of the ramp to the quinjet was every inch a SHIELD agent. Tall, dark-haired, dark-suited, steely gaze, he had that air about him that hinted at more than Quantico. “It’s a pleasure to have you with us, sir. I assume you’ve been briefed?”

Clint Barton returned the firm handshake. “Secretary Pierce filled me in. You must be Agent Wellings.”

“Roberts, actually. Wellings is piloting the jet.” Agent Roberts reached for Barton’s duffel.

“I’ve got it, thanks.” He hefted the bag containing his bow securely onto his shoulder.

Roberts shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll show you were to stow it.”

Barton followed him to the quinjet. Three more agents waited inside, in addition to Wellings. Barton acknowledged the introductions and tried to commit their names to memory for the duration of the mission. Unlike Roberts, these agents were dressed for stealth combat, not a White House briefing. Barton instantly felt more at ease.

“Wheels up in five,” Wellings called back. “Strap in, gentlemen.”

Clint chose to take advantage of the jump seat in the cockpit. “Agent Wellings,” he nodded.

“Agent Barton. It’s an honor, sir.” She flipped through a sequence of switches and buttons, then glanced over at him. “The world sure is a weirder place since the Battle of New York. Arms dealers are nothing new, but arms dealers with alien tech?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I’ll admit, I’m glad you’re with us, sir. I can’t seem to make heads or tails of it.”

“You want to understand it, call Stark. Or Banner. You want my help, just show me what to shoot,” Clint said with a wry smile.

Wellings laughed. “Now that, I can do.” 

Barton watched the New York skyline fade from view, then turned back to Wellings. “Maybe you can help me understand something. Why not Romanoff? It's no secret she knows Russia better than anyone. Especially me.” 

“Agent Romanoff is on assignment for Fury. Someone caught wind of pirates sniffing around a SHIELD vessel in the Indian Ocean. She and Rogers were pulled for a tactical response.”

“And I'm sure that's the only reason,” Clint said dryly. 

“Sir?”

“Nothing. What else can you tell me about our target? The Secretary’s briefing was, well, brief.”

“He’s only recently appeared on our radar. One of our agency contacts flagged a shipment of weapons with that little Chitauri extra. That information made its way to SHIELD real quick. So far, it seems to be a small operation, not many suppliers linked to him yet. Goes by the name Volkov.”

“The Wolf?”

Wellings raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I’m impressed.”

Barton shrugged. “Yeah, well, you don't spend as much time with Romanoff as I do without picking up a word here and there.”

“So he doesn’t win many points for originality, but Mr. Secretary would like him dealt with quickly and quietly before he becomes a nuisance.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

***

Twenty-two hours later, Barton found himself wondering if SHIELD’s “agency contact” had been a bit too jumpy. There was little evidence that Volkov had weapons enough to sell, and none at all that he had access to alien E.T. stickers for them, let alone Chitauri remnants.

“You’re sure your intel was good?” he asked. Again.

The glare Roberts shot him would have melted steel from the quinjet. The last twenty plus hours had not been kind to their working relationship. Where Barton had expected a competent lead agent, Roberts had fallen further and further short of that as time passed. As easily distracted as he was irritable, his leadership qualities were significantly lacking, and Barton understood why he wore a suit instead of combat gear. It was the only way Roberts could reassure himself he was in charge. Every comment Barton made was treated as a direct threat to his command of the mission. Barton didn’t care.

“It’s good,” Roberts said icily. “Trust me.”

“I’d rather not,” Barton muttered. The dingy hotel room was stuffy, and everyone was on edge. The other agents were nervous around Roberts, Roberts was short-tempered around Barton, and Barton hated wasting time. He already regretted agreeing to the mission. He had been due leave, and Laura would not be thrilled about having to wait. Again.

Barton sank into a battered chair near Welling’s surveillance position. If there was nothing to be done, he planned to get some shuteye. Until his smartphone buzzed.

Coulson had made him carry one. He had resisted as long as he could, but Phil Coulson had been insistent and persuasive. Barton had eventually, yet grudgingly, recognized the use of such a device; but Coulson died without knowing that, and there was the familiar flicker of melancholy as he pulled out the phone. A message from Natasha flashed on the screen, and the world stopped for a heartbeat as he read it.

_Cyclops KIA. Boomerang._

And then Clint was on his feet, shoving the phone back in his pocket and reaching for his duffel bag full of arrows. Roberts, who had been absorbed in a laptop screen, shot upright and looked sharply at him.

“Where do you think you’re going, Barton?”

“I'm calling it, Roberts. We’re done here.”

“I can't let you do that.” Roberts pushed back from the laptop and stood, blocking Barton’s path.

“There's no sign of alien tech anywhere. Just boring human weapons. There are plenty of CIA agents who would love to make a name for themselves shutting this guy down. I'm calling it; we’re going in.” Barton collapsed his bow with practiced ease and tucked it in its case. When he looked up, he was staring straight into the muzzle of Roberts’ gun. 

“I said, I can't let you do that, Barton.” His voice was hard and flat. 

Clint straightened up, slowly. In his peripheral vision, he saw the other agents move to draw their weapons. Before he could make sense of what was happening, four guns were aimed squarely at his chest. Only Wellings hadn't moved. She sat motionless, horror spreading across her face. 

“What are you doing, Roberts?” Barton’s voice was just as hard.

“Just following orders, sir. No hard feelings.” 

“What orders?” he asked, although he had a sinking feeling that he knew. 

“Secretary Pierce said to keep you busy and out of the way. And that's what we’ll do.”

“Roberts—” Wellings stood abruptly, then blinked as if surprised to find herself on her feet. “What is going on?”

“Stay out of this, Wellings,” Roberts warned. “It's above your pay grade.”

Wellings looked from Roberts to Barton, who hadn't moved, and back to Roberts. “Like hell it is.”

“Wellings!” Clint snapped out a warning, but it was too late. Wellings had drawn her weapon.

Before it cleared its holster, Roberts shifted aim and fired three shots straight to her heart. Wellings fell back, dead before she hit the ground. 

“No!” Clint cried, lurching forward. He was met with the barrel of Roberts’s gun, still warm from the muzzle flash, pressed to his forehead. He clenched his jaw and snarled, “It's going to be a pleasure to put an arrow through your eye socket. You're a dead man.”

None of the other agents had moved, but now they shifted uneasily, glancing at Welling’s motionless form out of the corners of their eyes. Clint was aware of their discomfort, but didn't take his attention from the agent in front of him. 

Roberts didn't react to the threat. “You'd be wise to stand down, Agent Barton.” 

“Or else what?”

Roberts shrugged nonchalantly. “Care to find out?”

Clint deliberately took one step forward, the muzzle digging further into his skin. “Go ahead. Kill me. See what happens.”

Roberts laughed humorlessly. “Oh, no. Pierce doesn't want you dead. He was very specific on that point.”

Barton didn’t bother to respond. He lunged for Roberts without hesitation, intent on dismantling the man with his bare hands—and then he was on the ground, his right arm exploding in fiery pain, his ears ringing from the close-range gunshot.

The SHIELD agents—no, Pierce’s men—no…..who WERE they?—stood over him, weapons unwavering. “Not dead.” Roberts’ voice. Mocking. Dispassionate. “But not necessarily undamaged.”

Barton didn’t even see the boot until it was inches from connecting, and then he saw nothing at all.

***

Clint wasn’t sure which was worse: the pounding in his head, or the throbbing in his arm. As welcoming as drifting in oblivion was at the moment, he forced himself to alertness, to take stock of his situation. What he learned was not encouraging.

He still lay on the floor in the same dingy, dirty hotel room. Wellings’ body was gone, but a pool of dried blood remained as a harsh reminder of her fate. Clint winced at the sight. Indistinct, angry voices argued beyond the door, but he couldn’t make out the words. He tried to sit up, only to discover that his right arm was wrapped in a clumsy bandage and unwilling to move, and his left wrist was ziptied to the leg of the bed frame. 

Before he could continue investigating, the voices grew louder and clearer, until he heard two words as plain as day. If his blood had run cold at Natasha’s message, it froze in his veins now. Despite the pain, he sat bolt upright as the door opened and Roberts entered the room, followed by his subdued and unhappy flunkies.

Roberts stopped and glared at him. “You couldn’t be happy chasing a fictional arms dealer, could you?” he spat. But he didn’t seem to expect an answer, so Clint didn’t offer one.

Roberts gave rapid, hushed orders to his subordinates, who then left the room. More than one man glanced over his shoulder towards Barton on the way out. He met each man’s eyes relentlessly, and then he was alone. With Roberts.

Who now was holding a naked blade.

Clint gritted his jaw and refused to squirm. Roberts crouched in front of him, examining the edge of the knife with melodramatic care.

“Your pal Rogers is a wanted man, Barton.”

Barton squinted at him, trying to make sense of the words. “You’re off your rocker.”

Roberts shrugged. “It’s true. Killed Fury himself. Every law enforcement officer, government agent, and SHIELD operative is after him right now.” He glanced up at his prisoner. “You want out of this mess you got yourself into in one piece? Prove to Pierce you can be trusted. Help us find him.”

Barton blinked. “My hearing’s not so great,” he said slowly. “I could have sworn you said you want me to help you capture Captain America.”

The backhanded slap snapped his head around and set his ears ringing again. Though now slightly distorted, Roberts’ voice remained icily calm. “Don’t screw this up, Barton. I’m offering you your only chance. Cooperate, and this doesn’t have to get messy.”

“Okay, Roberts.” Barton’s lip was bleeding, and he spat blood from his mouth. “I’ll play your game for a minute. Let’s assume that I’d be willing to help you hunt down one of the United States’ greatest heroes. I don’t imagine he’s in Russia right now.” Clint looked around meaningfully. “Exactly what is it you want me to do?”

Roberts’ lip curled in contempt. “You know the man. Where would he go? Who does he trust?”

Clint laughed humorlessly. “You overestimate our friendship.”

Roberts’ response was a thin smile. “Perhaps. But you haven’t heard who he’s on the run with.”

The long pause set Barton’s pain-fogged mind spinning and he knew the answer before Roberts said it.

“The Black Widow.” His smile broadened. “That’s right, Barton. Natasha Romanoff. It’s no secret the two of you have…history.”

Clint clamped down on the rising panic in his chest. “Then it doesn’t matter if I help you or not. If Rogers is with Romanoff, you’ll never find them.”

“Oh, we will. It will just take longer, that’s all. Now, if you were to aid us, Natasha might find that things will go easier for her. If you don’t…” He scraped the sharp point of the knife on the underside of Barton’s jaw, leaving a razor-thin trail of blood. “Well, then….you’ll both wish you had.”

***

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have antagonized Roberts. He just couldn’t stop himself. The man’s ego was impressively fragile, even for a government agent, and it was just too easy to poke holes in it. Unfortunately, beneath the swagger and bluster was a vicious, cruel man who was all too willing to inflict pain on the helpless. Barton’s clothes were now blood-spattered, and small, stinging cuts littered his face and neck where Roberts had set just the tip of his blade against the skin and flicked it away, drawing small amounts of blood. The real damage was the gunshot wound on his upper arm, sluggishly bleeding again after Roberts had poked and prodded it with his knife. The skin showing beneath the crude bandage was an angry red.

Despite the physical pain that demanded his attention, Barton could only focus on the two words he had overheard from the earlier argument.

_Hail, Hydra._

Those two words forced every other thought to the background as they echoed in his head again and again like a broken record.

_Hail, Hydra. Hail, Hydra. Hail, Hydra. Hail, Hydra._

He had to get back, to report to…not Fury. Fury was dead. And Secretary Pierce—Barton shook his head, trying to clear the fog of pain that was slowing his thoughts. Roberts claimed that he was operating under Pierce’s direct authority. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? If Roberts was somehow under Hydra’s control, and Pierce knew about it…No. Secretary Pierce couldn’t know. Roberts was lying. Had to be. Barton needed to get back stateside and sound the alarm. Who knew how far this infestation had already spread?

Hill.

The name appeared at the forefront of his mind with startling clarity. Maria Hill, Fury’s right hand—or left eye. She would know which protocol to follow. He needed to speak with Maria Hill. She would help him find Natasha.

Comforted to have a mission again, even if the specific plan of action was still a bit fuzzy, Clint allowed himself to lean against the bed and drift into a fitful sleep.

***

It couldn’t have been twenty minutes later when the door slammed open, startling him from sleep. Roberts stormed into the room, shouting incomprehensible orders sprinkled liberally with more colorful, less military language. The ziptie was cut, releasing Barton’s arm, and two men hauled him roughly to his feet. They held him fast, despite his struggles, as his wrists were yanked together behind his back and new zipties were pulled uncomfortably tight.

“Get him out of here!” Roberts yelled, shoving papers and equipment into bags with the help of a fourth man.

A hood was shoved over Barton’s head and he was half-pushed, half-pulled forward into darkness. From what he could recall of the motel’s layout, they brought him stumbling out the back door and shoved him into the trunk of a car. Barton’s head spun from the abrupt departure, blood loss, and the stabbing pain in his arm. Neither had he eaten in over twenty-four hours. He tried desperately to keep his bearings and track the turns of the car, but it was hopeless. After what felt like an eternity, but likely hadn’t been more than half an hour, the car stopped. Low conversation filtered through the darkness and Barton strained to make sense of it.

“—command structure is a mess and there’ve been no orders from Pierce.”

“Chatter says Pierce was assassinated and Project Insight is crippled. Roberts is furious.”

“Best stay out of his way, then. What about Barton?”

“Roberts has plans for him.”

The trunk opened. Barton bit back a cry as a strong hand closed over the bandage on his arm. They dragged him out and into a building before he could regain his footing. He tried a few times to ask questions, but each time the response was a blow to the head or his abdomen, coupled with a gruff order to “shut up.”

They brought him into an unheated room and shoved him in a chair. Additional zipties secured his wrists to the back of the chair and his ankles to the wooden legs, leaving him helpless and immobile. The hood was not removed. Barton tugged experimentally at the zipties, but found them thick and unyielding. There was nothing to do but wait.

He didn’t have to wait long. He had a split-second warning as the door was wrenched open before his head exploded in pain from a blow that caught him just below the temple. The chair tilted and dropped, causing his right arm to slam into the floor, overwhelming his pain threshold and sending waves of nausea crashing over him. A quiet groan slipped unbidden between his lips.

Then he and the chair were yanked upright again and the hood was jerked free. Roberts loomed over him, intense fury clouding his face.

“Everything is ruined,” he hissed.

“Glad to hear it,” Barton coughed. That earned him a resounding slap across the face. He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing from his ears.  
“I need your access codes,” Roberts continued as if Barton hadn’t spoken. “I need them now.”

Barton couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

When the beating stopped, he and the chair were on the floor again. Blood flowed from his nose and mouth. His ribs ached and breathing was more difficult than it had been. Roberts glowered at him. “I’ll be back. I’m sure you’ll be more accommodating the next time I ask.” He spun on his heel and was gone before Barton could respond.

***

The next days blurred together in a haze of pain, cold, and hunger. He was given little water and less food, just enough to keep him alive and alert. Roberts visited frequently to demand the codes needed to gain access to SHIELD’s databases. Barton continued to refuse, and Roberts made his life hell in return. Aside from these episodes, the other occupants gave him a wide berth. Barton figured that they were more scared of Roberts than of him.

On what might have been the seventh or eighth day—or even more—since they moved him, Barton heard commotion outside. There were no windows in his room, but he strained to look out the door. Nothing. The sounds of yelling and fighting echoed through the halls, but Barton could not pinpoint the cause or the participants.

Then Roberts appeared in the doorway, an odd gleam in his eyes. “Ready to give me those codes, Barton?”

Clint snorted.

“I’ve a feeling you’re going to change your mind,” Roberts sneered. He beckoned to someone beyond Barton’s view.

Clint Barton’s world ground to a halt as two men entered the room, hauling a struggling prisoner between them. He gaped, speechless. Roberts grinned wolfishly and withdrew his knife. He put himself between Clint and the newcomer.

“One of you will give me those codes. I don’t much care which. Barton?”

Barton stared numbly at the red-haired woman who continued to try to wrench free, unable and unwilling to believe his eyes.

Roberts tested the tip of the blade and raised an eyebrow. “I’m waiting.”

Barton clenched his jaw and met the woman’s gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but was immediately cut off with a backhanded slap. Clint pulled desperately against his bonds, ignoring the zipties that cut cruelly into his wrists.

“I’ve been more than generous, Agent Barton.” Roberts stepped closer to him. “Perhaps I need to demonstrate exactly how serious I am. Our new friend might be more forthcoming than you.”

In what seemed to be slow-motion, Roberts shifted his grip on the blade and drove it between Barton’s ribs. Numbness swept over him, then his nerves screamed as the knife was wrenched free.

_“CLINT!”_

Not Barton. Not Soldier. Not Agent. Not something in unpronounceable Russian. Not any of the hundred plus names that she had called him over the years. Just his true name, the name that she only uses during their quiet moments, their serious moments, their honest moments. Just his name, raw, harsh, and desperate. It somehow hurt worse than the searing agony that now had him doubled over in the chair, curling in on himself, even as the very sound of her voice drew him from the pain and back to his center. And as it did, one thought shoved its way past every self-preserving instinct and demanded to be heard. 

_Not Tasha. No. Please. Not here. Not Tasha._

The room erupted in a flurry of movement and noise. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, twisted free from her captors so effortlessly that it was immediately evident she had never been truly subdued. Through the darkness starting to crowd around the edge of his vision, Clint watched as she produced a garrote from…somewhere. The thin metal wire danced and twisted as Natasha felled first one man, then the other.

She turned her deadly attention to Roberts, whose face was now ashen as he brandished the knife uncertainly. Scornfully, Natasha kicked the weapon from his fingers, sending it skittering across the floor. Roberts gathered his resolve, then charged. Natasha slipped through his defenses easily, overwhelming him with a hail of blows aimed with surgical precision. He fell back, then collapsed to the floor, unmoving. Clint could not tell if he lived or not, and couldn’t bring himself to care.

Movement caught his eye and he called out a hoarse warning. Natasha spun in time to deflect an attack from the remaining agent that had accompanied Roberts. The man’s heart obviously was not in the fight, and he surrendered the moment that she had him on the ground.

“Clint.”

Her voice was calmer now, her attention on Clint even as she bound her prisoner and checked on Roberts. She did not bother to bind him. Barton assumed that meant he was beyond trying to escape. Then Natasha was kneeling in front of him, lifting his head, her hands deftly skimming across his face, his arms, his chest, as she skillfully assessed his injuries.

“Clint, talk to me.” Now her voice was more urgent. Barton blinked. He thought he had said something already. Perhaps he hadn’t.

“Tasha.”

A half-smile flashed across her face, then disappeared. “Barton, Laura is so pissed at you. You are in so much trouble.”

He would have laughed, but his chest hurt too much. “I don’t blame her. How—?” He let the question hang, lacking the strength to finish it.

“Long story. Pierce is dead. Hydra is everywhere. When I didn’t hear back from you, I knew something was wrong. It took a little digging, but I found your assignment for this mission.” She sliced through the zipties to free him. “How long have you been here?”

“A week? Maybe two? I don’t know.” Barton coughed and spat blood.

Natasha grabbed a scarf from around the neck of one of the dead men. “Here.” She pushed it against the stab wound on the right side of his chest, inches above the bottom of his rib cage. “Hold that. You look like crap. Can you walk?”

“Yes.” Clint actually didn’t know if he could or not, but his determination to leave overrode any objections his more rational self could raise. He took her outstretched hand and stood, then swayed dangerously.

She grabbed his left arm and steadied him. “Liar.” She slung his arm over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Clint limped beside her, grateful that she was moving slowly enough for him to keep up. His muscles were stiff from being held immobile for so long, and the blood loss wasn’t helping at all. But Natasha was there, and he was safe again. He exhaled deeply, feeling relief wash over him.

“Fury?” he asked as they stepped out of the building into an alley. Natasha steered him towards a car waiting a few hundred feet away. “Rogers?”

“Let’s get you to a safe house first, Barton. Then I’ll fill you in on everything.” Her face clouded. “The world’s a different place now.”

“As long as you’re still in it, I’m good.” A goofy grin spread across his face.

Natasha eyed him sideways. “You’re losing it, Barton. Don’t make me recommend a psych eval.”

Clint limped to the passenger’s door and lowered himself painfully into the seat. The blood was starting to soak through the scarf, but it wasn’t gushing. That was a good sign. “If you do, make sure you get one, too. You’re the one who came after me, you know.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes, missing Natasha’s snarky response as he drifted somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He was safe. He would see Laura and his kids again, and Natasha was alive. Even if the world crumbled around them, everything was going to be all right. 

 

End


End file.
